


Five Times the Freelancers Failed at Baking

by thought



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 08:36:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1219714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thought/pseuds/thought
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Technically, the freelancers don't have access to the galley -- technically most of the crew on the Mother of Invention don't really have access to the galley, but the Freelancers are the only ones for whom it becomes an actual issue in need of enforcement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times the Freelancers Failed at Baking

1.

Carolina doesn't mean to start it.

It's against regulations, and it sets a bad example, and she finds a whole variety of chances to regret it over the next year, but it's just… She had to.

"What do you mean you never learned to bake?"

North and South exchange vaguely bemused glances.

"It never came up?" North says like he isn't sure it's the correct answer.

"Our mom wasn't exactly the cookies after school type," South snipes, rolling her eyes.

"Do you want to try it?" Carolina asks. It may be pertinent to mention that she's a little drunk, but neither twin actually says the word "no".

An hour later she's banished them both to the opposite side of the galley where they're licking cake batter off the beaters while she makes icing and watches to make sure the cake is rising properly.

"I thought we were supposed to be having an experience?" South calls over. Carolina frowns darkly.

"You are. I just don't want to have the experience of eating a lump of salty coal, so your experience is more... supervisory."

"Which is code for 'you are useless, stay the fuck out of the way'," North says helpfully. The twins confiscated Carolina's bottle of gin about the same time she revoked their adding-ingredients privileges, and she feels a little cheated.

"Use that often?" South asks.

"No--" North becomes suddenly very focused on licking hardened batter off his forearm.

The door swings open before Carolina can call bullshit. "I smell something delicious," Florida announces, bouncing into the room. He's wearing his armour, helmet tucked under one arm, and there's a smear of dried blood on his cheek but no visible wound.

North jerks his head upright, tossing the beater in his other hand into the sink and trying to look at least a bit dignified. South leans back against the cupboard and makes a rather impressive show of deepthroating her beater, just daring Florida (or anyone) to comment.

"Carolina thought we were missing a formative childhood experience," North explains.

"And then she micro-managed us to the other side of the room," South adds.

Carolina sighs irritably. "You were fucking it up. There's no room for fucking up in science."

"...I think you mean baking," South says.

"They're the same thing," Carolina snaps.

"And here I thought baking was a special bonding moment formed purely by magical maternal powers."

"My father was the one who taught me, actually."

South shrugs. "You smash those gender norms, daddy Carolina. Can we go?"

Carolina goes back to stirring the icing. "Yeah, south. You can go."

South books it without hesitation, and North trails after her, hugging Carolina's gin bottle sleepily.

"Are you alright, Carolina?" Florida asks.

"Fine," she replies flatly, and for once he takes her at her word. She rides the bitterness and nostalgia through the downswing into hungover, and by the time the cake is perfectly iced and sitting on the counter like a photograph she can't imagine anything less appetizing.

2.

"That's not what the instructions say!"

Wash's voice is hitting optimal squeakiness, and Carolina's too exhausted to do anything but sit on the floor nursing her bruised ribs and observe. Connie's got a measuring cup and an intent frown and seems to be focusing primarily on ignoring Wash where he and the recipe are fretting behind her. She also appears to be vibrating gently.

"Ok, so theoretically if we add three quarters of a cup of coffee the consistency won't be too negatively affected," she says finally. Maine holds out the bowl which he's been mixing with the kind of care that he handles small animals and sensitive explosives.

"There's not even supposed to be coffee!" wash objects, grabbing at Maine's arm.

"You take that back," Connie mutters, and dumps the contents of the measuring cup into the bowl. Her hand is shaking noticeably and her grin is a bit too maniacal for comfort.

"Looks disgusting," Maine says after a minute of stirring.

"It's fine," Connie says firmly, and gulps the remainder of the coffee in the measuring cup. "Wash, grab the baking soda."

"I bet you don't ask for directions when you're lost, either," Wash says vindictively, but he hands her the baking soda nonetheless.

"Ok," Connie says, "Ok, there's a possibility this should've gone in earlier, but I'm sure we can spread it consistently through the batter. It probably doesn't matter. We're-- shit, hang on."

She half bounces, half runs over to the other counter, pulling a data pad from her pocket and frowning down at it. She's also wandering closer and closer to the coffeemaker.

"Should I even ask?" wash calls. Connie types furiously.

"You really, really shouldn't."

She picks up the scoop for the coffee beans with her free hand.

"Connecticut," Carolina says warningly.

"It's not technically illegal," Connie says immediately.

"I don't want to know," Carolina cuts her off hurriedly. "The less I know the less I can tell at your inevitable court martial. Walk away from the coffee."

The oven beeps cheerfully. "I'm turning this down," Wash calls. "I don't want to set anything on fire."

"We're not going to-- leave that alone, it's at 433 for a very specific reason," Connie bounce runs back over to Wash, practically jumping on his back to drag him away from the oven. Maine picks up the baking soda and shakes it a couple times over the bowl.

Carolina drifts, 45 hours on mission dragging her down no matter how much she fights to keep her eyes open. She leans the side of her face against one of the refrigerators, hopes the cold will help the swelling around her eye. The steady rise and fall of her teammates' chatter wraps around her like a blanket, dulls the pulsing concern of South and Wyoming still and silent in Medical with The Director's disappointed frown aimed full-force and silent on Carolina.

She snaps back to moderate alertness at wash's cry of victory. "I told you it wouldn’t work, I fucking told you so, I was right, we absolutely should've followed the recipe."

She rolls her head, pealing her face off the metal, and looks up into Maine's amused stare.

"Fucked up?" she asks.

He nods.

She sighs quietly, and immediately regrets it when her ribs protest sharply. "That's what you get for not following the rules," she says, and doesn't think about the small part of her that's disappointed that Connie failed.

3.

Most of them are sitting in one of the lounges, bored and restless, when Florida dashes in with a platter of cookies in one hand and the strap of a rocket launcher in the other.

"Bad news," he says brightly. "Looks like the Insurrectionists weren't planning a piano recital after all. Even worse news, I've just taken these snickerdoodles out of the oven and I won't have time to eat even one. But good news for you guys!"

He plops the platter down on the table, hitches the rocket launcher higher on his shoulder, and jogs back out the door with a little wave.

North coughs. "Well. That's... very nice of him."

"I'm suddenly not hungry at all," Connie says.

"Are we... supposed to eat them?" Wash asks, frowning uncertainly.

York has fallen asleep with his head in Carolina’s lap. "I wouldn't want to wake him up," she says, patting his shoulder.

"Oh I can bring the plate over," South offers, smirking.

"I wouldn't want to trouble you," Carolina says with a glare.

The door opens again and Wyoming enters, deck of cards in hand. "What did I miss?"

"We got cookies," Wash says.

"Mmm, splendid," Wyoming hums, dropping the cards beside the plate and picking one of the cookies up.

"Florida made them," Wash continues, oblivious.

Wyoming freezes, then with a faux-casual shrug he returns the cookie to the plate. "Hmm, I suppose we did just have dinner, I'd better--" he glances around, then starts back for the door. "I'm just going to wash my hands, excuse me..."

York blinks sleepily up at Carolina. "Did I fall asleep?"

She rolls her eyes a tiny bit. "Florida made us cookies."

"Are they poisoned?"

She sighs. "Are you just going to keep asking questions with obvious answers?"

4.

Carolina's running her cool down around the ship, muscles burning pleasantly and night shift crewman nodding politely as she passes. The lighting is dimmed in deference to the late hour, the only noise the background hum of the ship's systems and the faint murmur of conversation. It's peaceful, and she thinks maybe she'll actually be able to fall asleep. She turns down the next corridor, and slows at the muffled sound of raised voices.

"...gonna break every fuckin' bone in your body, the fuck is wrong with you?"

There's the tinkle of shattering glass, and something thuds into the wall on her left.

"Bloody lunatic, get your fucking hands off of me, this is exactly why I'm telling you to pull him--"

More shattering glass. Carolina glances at the door-- it's the galley, which is reassuring in that the glass is probably nothing important, but less so in that the galley is one of the least likely locations onboard for a fight to break out. Especially a fight between these two particular voices.

Carolina takes a deep breath, rubs her temples pre-emptively, and taps the door controls. She really, really doesn't want to do this.

It's simultaneously worse and better than what she was expecting. There's blood streaming from Wyoming's forehead and Tex's wrist is twisted back in ways that the human body should never bend, but they're both conscious and in possession of all their limbs. On the other hand, Wyoming is covered head to toe (and with special emphasis on the moustache) in white powder which she assumes to be flour if the empty half-shredded bag on the floor is any indication, and if he manages to hit Tex with the red hot pan he's swinging at her it will at least probably cook the egg that is smeared down the front of her shirt.

Carolina clears her throat.

"This is not what it looks like," Wyoming says, blinking blood and flour out of his eyes furiously. Tex takes the opportunity of his distraction to take a few steps closer to the knife block. On the other side of the large room water streams sadly from a forgotten tap into one of the stainless steel sinks.

"I don't... actually know what this looks like," Carolina says, a little helplessly.

"I'll fucking tell you--" Tex starts, gesturing alarmingly with a butcher knife. Wyoming's sniper rifle is sitting on the counter, aimed a bit too perfectly at a bag of hardened brown sugar.

Carolina shakes her head. "That wasn't a request."

There's a moment, once she's left, that she feels something vaguely related to concern and regret and responsibility. She should, she reflects resignedly, do something about the impending disaster, being that it's being spearheaded by members of her team. Luckily, she is an experienced team leader, well-versed in dealing with petty arguments.

"York," she says, leaning over his bed and poking him insistently. "York, wake up."

"Huh?" he twitches awake, too light a sleeper for the sort of happy childhood he insists he had.

"Your children are making a mess in the galley, go stop them before they kill each other."

He rolls onto his back, glaring. "Funny how they're only mine when their pissing you off." The poking turns to gentle punching. "Ok, ok, Jesus, let me put some clothes on, at least."

She's kind enough that she waits for him to leave the room before she cheerfully co-opts his body-warm bed and curls up to go to sleep.

5.

It's the smell of smoke that draws her to the galley, this time. It's late, far later than any crew would be on duty preparing food or cleaning up, which is why she feels the obligation to check in on the cause of the smell. Every step she takes pulls harshly at overtaxed muscles, and she's feeling light-headed enough that she knows she's going to have to force down a few energy bars before she can even try to sleep.

The door slides open, and the first thing she sees is York, face planted firmly in his palms, head shaking slowly back and forth. 479er is leaning against the sinks behind him, laughing sharp and caught somewhere between exhausted and angry.

"In accordance with Murphy’s Law," delta says, "Agent Carolina. Hello."

York's head comes up and he makes a half-hearted attempt to shoo her away from the cooling wrack on the counter. Carolina frowns.

"It doesn't look bad."

Silently, 479er grabs a spatula and tips the cake up on its side, revealing the charred mess that is the bottom half. A flake of ash drifts down to the countertop as if in quiet mourning for what could have been.

"How the fuck did you manage that?" Carolina asks, a little awed.

"There is no logical explanation for the extent of the damage," Delta says.

"Really, I don't know why we're fucking surprised," 479er chuckles darkly.

"We had such good intentions," York says sadly.

"I believe there is a saying regarding good intentions," delta notes.

"You really think you're clever, don't you?" 479er grumbles at delta.

"If you are asking if I have a concrete understanding of well-documented factual information..."

"Children," York says tiredly.

"Next time watch your oven more closely," Carolina says, and turns for the door. "What was the occasion, anyway?"

"Jesus Christ," 479er says, in her 'why do I work with a squad of idiot puppies?' voice.

Carolina glances back. York looks like somebody's just told him Santa isn't real and followed it up with a punch to the dick, and 479er's gone back to fatalistic laughter.

"As of half an hour ago," delta says, "It is your birthday, Agent Carolina."


End file.
